And I'd Do It Again

by Crocker, Aimée;

  It was a narrow escape.

  Well, I won my bet with Bhurlana. But, believe me, for I say it with a certain fervor, all is not beer and skittles in those musty, jealousy-ridden, feline dens. Reconstruct your rosy ideas of them.

  But India …!

  I am going to digress, and give you some of the more fundamental sides of what India became to me. You may already have gathered that there is a strong religious streak in me. I do not mean for one moment that I am a fervent follower of any of the accepted creeds and doctrines. Religion to me has never meant doctrines nor forms nor methods. I believe that the philosophers of today and of yesterday are more or less agreed upon this point also. I have gathered this, not from any study, but from the conversations of those more learned than myself.

  There was a reason for my coming to India which had nothing to do with adventure, with the so-called “freedom” of young women who are bored with their lives at home, nor with flirtation (already much too prevalent in this book, I am afraid). This reason cannot be called other than religious. If you want to be hard on me and my insufficient understanding of the mysticism of the East, you will probably say that I was sentimentalizing about what I did not know.

  You will remember that, twenty years before the wheel of life had spun and tossed me into Bombay, I had had a vision of a beautiful and radiant woman, dressed in an Oriental costume, lying on my childhood’s bed. A glimpse, a cry, and it vanished. But it had remained vivid in my childish imagination, and became in later life symbolic of something that I wanted, wanted to know and to understand.

  All through my life I have been drawn to that which I cannot clearly define. The Buddhism of China and its beautiful pageantry fascinated me and became a narcotic to me, as did the rites of the Japanese and their (to me) incomprehensible symbolism.

  Thus in India.

  Now there are two important influences which threw me into an adventure (a badly chosen word) which colored my entire after life. The first was another vision, and the second was a book.

  The vision occurred in my hotel in Bombay, some weeks after my experience in Bhurlana’s harem. I had returned from an evening’s amusement, and had been dancing, and using those other devices by which we decoy ourselves into thinking that we are having a good time. I returned alone and was tired. My mind was relaxed and concentrated on nothing in particular, and I was so exhausted bodily as to be almost in a state of coma.

  I opened the door of my apartment, walked through the anteroom, through the drawing-room where the moon was pouring in like an arc light, and into my bedroom. I went to the mirror without lighting the kerosene lamp which the up-to-date hotel afforded and stared at myself. A very feminine gesture. Perhaps I was trying to convince myself that I was still beautiful though tired.

  In the mirror, I saw that something radiant and shining was on my bed. I turned quickly. The same beautiful woman I had seen when I was a little girl was lying there. She was purdah, but her veil did not conceal the beauty of her eyes. They were smiling at me. Slowly and gracefully she raised herself and sat up on the bed, drawing her feet under her, and holding out her hand to me. Her clothes were of the richest silks and her head crowned with a diadem of the most glorious pearls.

  I was not afraid. I started forward … just one step.

  She vanished.

  Nothing was there. Nothing. I lighted the lamp and saw that the pressure of no body had indented the perfectly smooth bed. But I seemed to be conscious of a faint perfume … very faint … probably imaginary. That was all.

  I could not sleep that night. It was too real, too convincing. But tired as I was, a certain refreshment came over me, and in the morning I found myself possessed of great joy.

  Now for the book.

  It was a book which had been published a few years before in Bombay … the translation of Jogindra’s Hathapardipika, the book of the Yoga. My friend Shikapur made me a present of it in reply to several rather childish questions I had put to him about Hindu religions. It was perhaps a hard subject for me, but it was, all the same, a great revelation, and it gave me a comprehension of the deeper things of existence.

  Yoga is a Sanscrit word meaning concentration. It is today the name of one of the orthodox Hindu systems of belief. It has for its teaching the way in which the human being can become perfectly united with the Supreme Being. There are eight stages of this concentration: self-control, external and internal purity; postures (which have served as basis for many of the false Yoga “rackets” popularized in Europe and America by would-be intellectuals and handsome, money-seeking Hindus); regulation of the breath; restraint of the senses; steadying of the mind; fixing of the mind on the Supreme Being; and profound contemplation.

  The Yogin, or follower of the Yogi creed, may attain eight great powers when he arrives at maturity of the samyama, the last three of the stages. He may shrink into the diminutive form of the atom or may obtain perfect control and dominion over everything or yet possess a knowledge of all things that have or may happen in the earth or in the heavenly bodies. The Yogin may even attain the powers of comprehension of the most subtle elements and be able to see all objects at once as he approaches the identity with the Supreme and become part of Him.

  Perhaps it is not given to Westerners to comprehend or to have sufficient faith to master these conceptions. I failed as all Occidentals have failed, so far as I know, but I brought a great beauty into my life and I can only wish that I were a big enough person … I was about to say “soul” … to fill my life and mind with the richness of this majestic conception. But to my story.

  It begins when, shortly after my odd vision of which I had told nobody, I heard an account of a strange thing. It seems that there was a famous Yogin who dwelt in a cave near Poona and who had arrived at an envious stage of concentration. He practiced what is called the Hatha-Yoga which is the near means to the supreme end of liberation, and he was able, when the spirit moved, to explain any of the mysterious phenomena of life, death, or life after death. Hundreds of soul-hungry persons visited his cave, and some were rewarded, while others to whom he took no notice, were turned away with no more knowledge than before.

  An American newspaper man, whom I leave nameless, sailed from San Francisco and paid a visit to Bhojaveda, the Great Yogin. He went as though on a great Christian pilgrimage of the Middle Ages, on foot, with no guide and no money, in perfect humility, perfect simplicity, and was never again heard of.

  There was considerable speculation among the residents of Bombay as to whether he ever reached the Yogin or not, or whether the revelations of the great Contemplation were such that he made an end of his life after the interview. The government attempted to solve the mystery of his disappearance but nothing ever was known, least of all from the Yogin himself.

  But an idea was born in me then. It became almost a fetish. I determined to visit the Yogin, if it was my last experience in this life. I finally told my plan to Shikapur, who was seriously upset and concerned, and did everything in his power to dissuade me.

  Stubborn as I was, I became even more determined to go. I was troubled by my vision, and by a certain inner disturbance of mind or soul which I associated with it. I was not a very happy girl and I wanted that Great Peace which the Kaivalya or true Liberation brings. Call it the sentimental or romantic ignorance of a silly young woman if you will. I was not the first nor yet the last. There was something I wanted. I did not understand but I wanted it fervently.

  Result: I went to Poona.

  I rode on a mule, accompanied by Shikapur, to the city, through a dark jungle and protected only by a few native bearers and guides and my very worried young friend. Nothing happened, however, that showed cause for his disturbance, and I reached there after five days of slow going, tired, a little frightened, and very sorry that I had come … but determined to go on.

  The cave of Bhojaveda is situated about seven miles from Poona under a low wooded hill. It is less a true cave than a rock-shelter which runs some fif
ty feet back into a turf-covered gigantic bowlder.

  My guide would not approach it nearer than a half mile off, whether from fear or from some religious concept. However, I rode on alone, until three totally naked, blackened men barred my way. I exposed a little note written in Sanscrit which Shikapur had prepared for me. They read it very gravely and slowly and then stared at me. I wanted to cry or to faint. I was afraid to be there and afraid to go away. It was no fear of the ordinary sort, rather a fear of the mystic and of the powers of which I knew nothing. But one man made a motion for me to follow and then walked ahead of me towards the huge cleft of the bowlder.

  At a certain distance, the men motioned me to halt and to dismount. I did, and one remained there with me while the other walked very slowly forward and into the cave.

  He remained there a long time. Meanwhile the one who had stayed with me stood rigid and erect, his eyes and body turned away from me and towards the cave. A statue.

  After an endless while, the first man returned, slowly, with an exaggerated, measured step. He did not look at me. He took his place by his companion and fixed his gaze somewhere, saying … in plain English which was fairly understandable:

  “Go. It is the moment.”

  I went forward and into the cave as though in a trance.

  Another naked Hindu emerged from somewhere and preceded me down the blackened shaft until we came to a dim room-like opening where the rock had formed a natural internal shelter. It was faintly lighted by a break which ended in daylight far overhead, aided by a feeble oil lamp.

  My silent guide stopped and held up his hand.

  I stood breathless, waiting.

  Then from the shadows there appeared a phantom.

  The being who moved silently into my vision was practically transparent. He was a man who was very aged. His perfectly white hair hung to his waist and his beard to his knees. He was without any garment at all and his skin seemed to be wax, and one could notice that the fingers and the flesh of the face were actually translucent. All the veins of his body were as clear as if they had been painted on him.

  He stood before me, erect. But I knew that his eyes were not fixed on me, and this gave me the courage to look at them.

  They were enormous, lustrous, and seemed to glow, as the light of the lamp struck them, deep in the caverns of his eye-sockets. His face was a skull with transparent wax-skin scarcely concealing the bones. But in some way which I cannot explain he was beautiful. It was an ethereal beauty. There was something of another world in that face from which all color had vanished.

  Then, in a soft, clear, sweetly vibrant voice he spoke. It was probably Sanscrit in which he spoke, or some old Indian dialect. He spoke rhythmically and with no inflection of the voice. It was like a machine speaking, like some strange singing or intonations of sounds and accents. And I understood nothing.

  But while I stood, too far out of myself for terror or any definite emotion, I became hypnotized by that voice. I was lulled by the timbre, by the rhythmic speech. I felt so far away from everything, and could see nothing definitely.

  Then, somewhere in that dim light, I saw a vision … or perhaps a reality.

  It was the image of a young Indian boy, very beautiful indeed. He moved towards me and smiled at me. He lifted his hands half-way towards me. He was dressed in the rich costume of a Hindu noble, and it was remarkable … I shall always remember it … that he wore about his neck twelve strings of magnificent pearls. I have never seen their equal for luster.

  And then the voice ceased.

  And then the boy vanished.

  And then Bhojaveda, the Great Yogin, turned without motion, without sound, and silently faded into the shadow.

  The naked Hindu was once more beside me. I realized the interview was at an end, and I followed him dazedly back along the passage. I could see the light of the entrance growing larger and larger, but I was not conscious of moving towards it.

  Then the sunlight and the air. Then more complete consciousness.

  Then I recalled that I had learnt nothing at all, and that I had understood nothing.

  The two naked Hindus were still waiting in their rigid, motionless pose. I walked towards them until one of them lifted his hand for me to stop. He spoke to me in English. Years have dimmed my memory of his words, but the substance is this:

  “You have heard, but you did not understand. Know that it has been given to you to see what all do not see. The vision you had in your childhood and have again had recently, is a vision of your mother. The young child who visited you in the cave was yourself in your last reincarnation, son of that mother. Once more will you see the vision of the mother who is watching you, one last time, and on that day you will go to her. You have read the Truth, but it is not given to you to understand the Truth. You cannot change what is to come, and you cannot escape it. It is of no purpose that more should be revealed to you.”

  Now I will make no further comment. You may imagine for yourself the effect that such an interpretation had on me, the more especially as the man who now spoke to me had certainly not been within two hundred feet of the sound of the Yogin’s sweet, quietly modulated voice.

  I left with a new passion and a new fear. I was inarticulate when I returned to the worried, waiting Shikapur. The East, its depths, its penetration, its mysticism, had gripped me still tighter in its long fingers. My curiosity had grown into passion like a sudden flowering.

  But there remained the fear of that beautiful vision which would foretell the end of my life.

  But there are other facets to my days in India. A curious story comes from Bombay concerning a friend of mine. I say “friend” with a certain emphasis, because there came a time in Bombay society when I was completely without friends. I had, as you may have gathered, broken the “code,” and had appeared publicly with “the natives.”

  The story concerns a young English girl named Ellen Purling and her stiff chaperon, Mrs. Reginald Benn. This latter would have made a good character from Dickens or Thackeray, but was born too late. I christened her “the Battle-Ax.” She was the estranged wife of an M.P., I learnt after three weeks’ acquaintance over a dinner table. She had been engaged by the Purling family, who were apparently “good county stock,” to escort Dear Ellen on a voyage of education through the British Empire, and at the same time to keep Dear Ellen from the hands of any “impossible foreigner” who might aspire to the well-rounded money-bags of the Essex Purlings.

  And this she did.

  Mrs. Benn, armed with lorgnette, and a thick fringe of chilling respectability, had routed more than the “impossible foreigners.” Even the most presentable and sweet young Englishmen, en route to a good civil service post, had been completely daunted by the weapons of this hardy lady. Much to the harm of her charge, be it said.

  Ellen Purling was just 20 when I made her acquaintance in my hotel. She was as pretty, in a sweet-pea way, as a rosy, classical-featured, English virgin can be. I learned after some timid and unconfiding weeks that the only men she had known in her life were her father, the rector of St. Winifred’s, Purling, and the rector’s son. She became, in time, very friendly with me in spite of the Battle-Ax’s first hesitation and obvious méfiance. Mrs. Benn rather liked me herself, after the first two weeks. She was a lonely soul, although she did not know it, and her professional ferocity made most people careful not to have any more contact with her than was politely necessary.

  Ellen I really liked. Perhaps her diffidence and her innate and starving sweetness contrasted so much with my own hardy and swashbuckling young ladyhood. I was a little envious of her, in a way. I had maybe lost something, in not having that sweetness … not being capable of having it. I suspected in her, too, a quiet little unhappiness. It was not long before this was translated into very clear terms.

  At all events, Mrs. Benn made a very special exception in my case, and allowed Ellen to go about with me now and then. And one day it happened.

  Ellen and I were doing the ba
zaars and shops. There was a curious little place where birds and strange fish and odd little animals like mongooses were for sale. Ellen had seen somewhere some pet fish that had sunset heads and whose bodies graduated through the whole gamut of colors into one long streaming blue tail-strip and another long crimson one. We were directed to the store in question, and it was really an adventure in itself. But not the least curious and fascinating in the place was the proprietor himself. I have no idea to what caste he belonged, but he had the dignity of a noble, the grace of an Apollo, and the beauty of a god. I can still picture him in his immaculate white turban, his black tunic of mohair, his white and not-so-immaculate trousers and bare feet, his delicate, nervous hands and long finger-nails, and his neatly parted beard which added to his air of a distinguished but impoverished young philosopher.

  I was amused at him. But Ellen stared at him with round eyes. I did not recognize the symptoms at first, but afterwards I remembered that stare.

  We bought the fish, whatever its name was, and we bought a red, green, and violet bird of some sort and we would have bought perhaps the entire shop if the bearded young man who owned it had not been interrupted by the entry of some chattering young couples in search of souvenirs.

  What a way that young proprietor had with him. His limited, but effective English, his bowing, his “Ah, but the memsabib would to see be interested …” and his really enchanting smile. We went out of his shop at last, complete with aquarium and menagerie. We went to tea – I have forgotten where – and then suddenly I got rather a shock.

  “Wasn’t he wonderful?” asked little Ellen Purling, breathlessly and radiant as a June bride. “Did you ever see anyone so good-looking? Such eyes? Why, they fairly compelled me.”

  Now I can understand schoolgirl enthusiasm, but I never expected to hear little Miss Prim talking about a man’s eyes compelling her. She babbled and chattered about him for over an hour, and I was just as astonished to learn that she had found out his name during the first few minutes I had wandered away from her to look at some of the finny wonders of his place. It was Rabani, or something of that kind.